


Please Don't

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5778337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a study in greed, depravity, and death.</p><p>WARNING: lewd words and actions, character death, implied pedophilia, cannibalism, inadequate research of period slang and diction</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the characters are based on characters from Supernatural canon. I also make no claims on historical accuracy.

John, Earl of Winchester, eyed the slimy little man in front of him. His name was Marks or Marcus, or was it Matthew. He had stooped to meet in one of the many gaming hells in London. This one was a particular cesspool of depravity that he had visited often as a youth barely seven years past. The madame still knew him, and his vices, on sight. Avoiding her had proven impossible. So too would the charms of the soiled dove, blond and voluptuous if that virago Lorretta remembered him well enough, that would attend to his table if he stayed. He had during his prime sampled just about every skirt worth his time on the whole of Britain. They were his favorite vice, and he had to remain long enough to lose some money. No man of his standing could enter a gaming hell and not gamble. That was the surest way to spark gossip. Gossip he could ill afford and young men were even worse than their grandmothers at the art.  
  
"I can assure you, I am discrete," the man said. There was nothing outwardly wrong with him. His clothing was clean and expensive enough, made of fine sturdy cloth and tailored with skill. His tone was one of respect, as well as his affect. Someone had take the time to school him in the proper methods of addressing a member of the peerage. John could find no real fault in any of it. There was just something about him, something niggling at the back of John's mind that made him distrust every honey-dipped word coming out of his mouth. He wondered if this place had been chosen to remind him just how false his claims of moral inflexibility were.  
  
John nodded, as was expected, "Good," he said. "I trust you have everything you need," he asked. The question was rhetorical, of course. The little rodent had everything John intended to give him.  
  
Fergus. That was his name. Bloody Scots. Just the thought of those barbarians gave him hives. The whole lot of them were filthy. Them and the Irish. Even their so-called nobility stank of cow. Damned difficult to kill too. Fergus smiled and tapped his temple, "I've got it all in here. I'll send word when its done." He grabbed his cane, bowed deeply enough for propriety, and murmured, "My lord," before he left the little back room.  
  
"Winchester, my friend," someone exclaimed as he emerged from the hallway. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.  
  
John startled a little and then plastered a smile on his face as he spied who had him. "Covington, I wasn't aware you still haunted this old place," he acknowledged. The man was easily ten years his senior and still gallivanting about as if he wasn't. Despite being a Duke, there was a rumor that he had lost much of his vast inheritance and was neglecting his holdings to such an extent that he took out a sizable loan from Bradbury just last week in order to stem the tide of belongings leaving the mansion to pay the interest he owed. He wondered briefly what the man's sisters were living off of and where. They hadn't been seen in some time.  
  
He shrugged, his once rich brown hair peppered with gray at the temples, "You know me. I simply can't resist a good toss." He grabbed a drink from a passing tray, "I thought you gave up the good life." He certainly had failed to so much as slow down. The night was barely started and he reeked of bourbon and cheap perfume.  
  
John nodded as he recognized Tisdale and Addington joining them. "I did. I have. I had a bit of business to conduct. You know how it is," he explained, hoping he would drop the matter.  
  
Tisdale chuckled, "Now that you are here you simply must stay for a game or two." His face had slimmed down, dropping the baby fat, since his arrival in the ton.  
  
Covington remarked, "You simply must stay. It is Tisdale's birth date next week. You know how stuffy those things can get."  
  
John admitted defeat and they moved on to a game of bragg, or more. He played till there was a good bit less coin in his purse and sleep was tugging at him. He hadn't stayed out this late in ages, preferring to rise early. He had transformed the scoundrel of his youth into an upright Earl of Winchester, trading nightly pursuits for a mistress he kept in his former apartments not far from here. Kate knew how to be discrete and was well aware the moment suspicion landed on her she would find herself homeless and friendless. The title still weighed on him a bit and he couldn't afford the scandal. Besides, things with Mary were tense already. Ruining her precious reputation would be trouble he did not have the time for.  
  
The hour was late when he finally called a halt to his participation. The tart that had periodically warmed his lap for the better part of an hour frowned as he removed her and stood. She had been confident of his company, even went so far as to ensure his cup was never empty. Drunkards were easily parted from their money. Yet, it seemed that he had reached some predetermined limit of a sort and did not intend to line her pockets in exchange for a bit of time between her legs. The madame gave her a raised eyebrow, a signal to try harder, and she did, all but throwing her half-dressed body between the Earl and the door.  
  
He looked down at her with a frown. Being one of the tallest in the peerage he nearly towered over her. "It was a lovely evening," he said as a dismissal. He had no intention of returning to old habits.  
  
"My lord, may I offer you a more private place for us to get acquainted," she demurred.  
  
His gaze raked her from head to toe as she preened for his inspection. Lorretta's hand could be clearly seen in the choice of this one for his table. Young, petite, blond, a little plump, with a generous bosom and hips wide enough to get a good grip on. All of it was accentuated by flowing emerald that left much of her legs bare and nothing to the imagination. Exactly his type of whore. He could almost see the glistening lips of her cunt from here. "I do not believe that would be necessary," he replied and stepped around her. Tossing her one of his few remaining coins further succeeded in chasing her away. It wasn't as much as she would have made had he taken her up on the offer, but it would have to suffice.

_If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man,_  
_You win some, lose some, all the same to me,_  
_The pleasure is to play, makes no difference what you say,_  
_I don't share your greed, the only card I need is_  
_The Ace Of Spades_

Fergus adjusted his cravat with disgust. He hated wearing the cursed things, but he wouldn't have gotten in the door at Lorretta's without it. That had been essential to soothe a nervous Earl's fears. Ruben stilled his fidgeting with a glance as they walked side by side in the night. The city wasn't safe so late, not even for the nobility. Especially not for the nobility whose purses would be fat with coin and reflexes dulled by spirits. These two men went unmolested, shadows emerging from the alleyways just long enough to identify who it was they stalked before disappearing back into the refuse with a nod. Fergus had appeared out of nowhere only a few years before and had quickly left his mark. London had welcomed a destitute Scot tailor and he made himself into an imposing figure of her seedy underbelly. Despite what people might think, there were plenty of opportunities for the shrewd.  
  
Ruben touched the brim of his hat to a street rat lurking on the cobblestones, most likely looking for a few pockets to empty. "Did we get what we need," he asked.  
  
"Of course," Fergus said smugly.  
  
"And Juliet," he asked.  
  
"In place," he replied. "Patience. Things are moving along swimmingly."  
  
They turned down a narrow path between two whorehouses heading towards the river. Fergus and Ruben together now owned several buildings in the area. Their destination was the first to be purchased, or rather won in a card game of all things. This first acquisition had started it all, his grand plan for wealth and power. The door opened smoothly into a candlelit space, a foyer of sorts. The door beyond was opened as soon as woman behind it recognized him.  
  
"Fergus," she acknowledged. Meghan had been working for him almost since the beginning. He considered himself a progressive man of the age and he saw the value of a skirt in many ventures. Tonight she had played up her femininity, a tactic to confuse the random passerby or thief. Her bodice was low and her waist was more narrow than usual, framed by a flared skirt to accentuate her assets. He often wondered how she could breathe in that contraption, but never bothered to ask. It looked too enticing on her to risk the chance she might give it up. Low bred women were not known to waste precious coin on such frivolity, after all. "They are waiting for you," she informed him as she hung his coat next to the door.  
  
The three of them descended a spiraling staircase lit only by the candle stick he held in his hand. Meghan dragged her fingernails lightly along the stonework with each step down. The sound played hell on his nerves, and she knew it. He was relieved to see the worn wooden door just beyond the last step, a relic from the previous owner. This dank basement was a little surprise he had come upon during the renovations he and Ruben conducted just after gaining the deed. At first he had thought to furnish the space and operate an ultra-exclusive gaming hell beneath his more legitimate merchant business. There were many reasons he didn't, one of them being the local competition. Fergus, despite his street notoriety, was a small fry compared to the titled men who owned half the gaming hells in the city. They tolerated his operations because he was very careful not to step into their interests. If he miscalculated or overreached, they would not hesitate to take his knees out from under him, or even his head from his shoulders. The ton were an arrogant lot, but they were bloody arrogant for a bloody good reason and it pissed him off to no end every time he had to cowtow to some titled turkey for the sole reason that the man owned a piece of paper that claimed his shit didn't stink.  
  
Fergus opened the door to the small crowd of people waiting inside, clustered in black robes around a squat altar. His own little demented flock. Handpicked, each of them, for certain moral flexibilities and the willingness to do whatever he required in the pursuit of his, their, goal. He smiled to each of them, tolerating the hands that reached out to brush against his clothing as he passed. Ruben and Meghan donned their own robes to join the group, melding into one mass of black cloth. For the moment, Fergus was the only recognizable person in the room. The opening ceremony was brief, predictable, and even a little boring by now. They paid homage to the blood, the body, and the life with small offerings. The blood they used this time had been taken from a calf slaughtered late in the afternoon so that the bright red liquid had yet to begin stinking. Indeed, it was still warm. The beaten copper bowl nearly filled to the brim with it was passed around from one to another with gentle efficiency born of long practice. They dipped in and with their fingers painted a set of simple symbols onto the skin of their foreheads and cheeks, murmuring something over and over as they did. The heart, its flesh soft and slippery, came from the very same calf as well. He saw no use in wasting money on two animals when one would be sufficient. The organ had been placed in another finely crafted beaten copper bowl, it and it's twin one of the few luxuries he allowed into this room. This too was reverently passed around until each member had partaken. One by one they took a bite, swallowed it whole, and passed it on until the entire organ was devoured and the emty bowl was returned to Fergus. The celebration of life was done in their usual way, a little hard ballocks emptying on the altar with a member chosen at random. He'd been a bit sauced when he'd thought this whole bit up, but he could not regret the regular action his cock was enjoying as a result. He found their formal meetings rather exhilarating. Often the entire group got in on the action, pairing up and rutting on the floor or up against the walls. Fergus recognized Benjamin's soft brown eyes before he bent him over and brought them both pleasure using the remaining blood to ease the way. Warm flesh, man or woman, was all the same to him and neither man waited long before completing. They righted their clothing without bothering to wipe themselves down.  
  
Once the formalities were over with Fergus temporarily cast aside his status as favored, no longer separate or unique. This too was done for a purpose. He was their leader, not their lord, and he ruled by a tenuous thread. A little humility could go a long way among the low born. So, he became for a short time just another member of The Faceless, shrouded in his own identical black robe. His silhouette was indistinguishable among the others for the next phase.  
  
Thus began revelations, each voice overlaid by several others so that no one could determine who was speaking, and no one opinion could be heard over the others. They were truly Faceless now, a single entity of many masks, forms, and tones. One purpose. One goal. One mind.  
  
"Has the Earl accepted?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Do we have the target?"  
  
"Viscount Wentworth. No women. No children."  
  
"Do we have the means?"  
  
"The vessel will be chosen."  
  
"Who will be chosen."  
  
"Isabella"  
  
"Isabella"  
  
"Do we have the method?"  
  
"Poison. Poison. Poison."  
  
"Belladonna."  
  
"Do we have the hour?"  
  
"Five days hence."  
  
"The task is set."  
  
Then Fergus' voice broke through, "So mote it be." The voices fell silent, the communion broken.  
  
Silently his flock filed out, leaving their robes hanging on hooks in the walls. As they left they each kissed their palm and let it linger on the image of the Horned God. None dared to look at Fergus or Ruben as they stood on either side of the altar, but he knew that each would scrub the blood from their faces before leaving the shelter of his building. News of their little endeavor had yet to leave these walls and no one wanted to be the person that broke the secrecy. As the group returned to their often simple lives, one remained behind, her face still stained red and her lips lush from the blood of the meat in her gullet. She carefully cleaned Fergus up, using first a moistened cloth and then her tongue, as was customary between them. When she was finished she stayed on her knees, her eyes fastened on his shoes not out of fear but out of respect. She had been the first to follow him, to believe in his potential. She was loyal, above all others, and the only person he completely trusted. She knew this entire ceremony to be a farce and went along with it anyways, knowing the power of it did not stem from the god such actions promised to summon but in the sense of belonging it created among them.. He had stolen and then twisted much of their ritual from his mother's people, genuine pagans. The termagant had burned at the stake as a witch when he was just a boy, but his recollections from his childhood were enough to impart some measure of credibility.  
  
He reached out and tipped her chin up from its perch on her chest. She rose with his finger, standing to her full petite height. If there was a woman he could love it would be Juliet. She had a delicateness about her that even the most discerning lord could not deny and beneath that porcelain skin and thick black hair she was every bit the hardened killer he required her to be. Her unwavering faith in his guidance had allowed him to mold her into exactly the sort of tool he required. Indeed, Juliet had reveled in it her new purpose, taken to the task as if born to it and not the bawdyhouse he had rescued her from. She was his faithful hound in the form of a beautiful maiden. She would play the lapdog for whomever he chose until he gave her the signal to strike.  
  
He studied her. He didn't know what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything at all. There were times he wondered just when this fine instrument crafted just for him would turn on him as well. He cupped her cheek and smeared the traces of blood on her lips with the pad of his thumb as he asked, "How is Winchester Manor treating you?"  
  
Juliet smiled, eager to please. "The Lady prefers chamomile tea in the evenings," she replied. Fergus had bid her to seek a position at the Winchester household as soon as his meeting with the Earl had been arranged. The point was not to harm either noble, but members of the ton were known to be fickle, especially when dealings with those below their station. For now she was his spy and perhaps later she would need to be his vengeance, though he suspected not. The Earl of Winchester was not a foolish man and he knew Fergus was much more than he let on.  
  
He pet her hair lightly, running the silken strands through his fingers. She was so completely the opposite of his harridan mother that he could barely let her leave his presence and return to her duties. "You please me greatly, Juliet," he told her instead. When she left he tried not to think about what would happen when he had to kill her too.

_Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil,_  
_Going with the flow, it's all the game to me,_  
_Seven or Eleven, snake eyes watching you,_  
_Double up or quit, double stake or split,_  
_The Ace Of Spades_

The Dowager Lady Helene Wentworth held onto the bed post as her young lady's maid cinched the last few stubborn strings into place. The corset tightened over her torso and returned a bit of shape to her aging frame. At seven and sixty she was mourning her youthful curves far more than her rotting husband. The late Lawrence, former Viscount of Wentworth, the third, had been just as much of a wretch as their oldest was turning out to be. She would never understand her son's predilection for the empty-headed tart, but the girl had proven to be an excellent maid, making it practically impossible to circumvent his decree and be quit of her. Helene would rather not have known that he spent more time with the girl's mouth between his thighs than actually working when in his study, though. Helene wasn't stupid. The maid's blasted foot had been sticking out from under his desk and the look on the Viscount's face had been scandalous before he'd bothered to school his features. Only an imbecile would not have understood the situation. Much coin had been put to work silencing the staff, wasted, as he vehemently forbade any other possible solution. She could barely look at the girl now. At least his vacuous excuse for a bride was still too naive to pick up on it before now.  
  
"What was your name again, dear," Helene asked as the girl moved to retrieve her blue patterned dress from the armoire.  
  
"Nora, Madam," she replied in a soft voice. She had arrived at the mansion almost three months prior, a small bag under one arm with all her worldly possessions in one hand. The Viscountess Wentworth, nitwit that she was, fell for her sad story and hired her on the spot. Thank heavens she actually possessed some measure of skill at the task.  
  
Helene looked down at her sagging bosom sticking out from the top of the corset. Even squeezed into such a contraption her chest looked a bit sunken at the top. She was suddenly not in the mood to go downstairs and play the dried up old Dowager just yet. She was in the mood for a little pampering, though. Her voice was sharp when she spoke her mind, cracking in the small silence. "Inquire at the kitchens about a salve for my ankle. Moira will know of what you speak," she instructed. When the girl looked at her wide-eyed, the dress still in her hands, Helene scowled. "Are you deaf as well as daft," she asked, "Do as I say." Without waiting to see her order obeyed, she turned her back on the gaping fish of a girl.  
  
Nora watched as the Dowager sat herself on the corner of the bed by the fire, a shawl closed about her shoulders before she left the room. The woman hadn't been especially cruel to her, then or just now, but she had the distinct urge to cry. Perhaps it was the curt issuance of command or the habitual treatment as if she was just some mobile peace of furniture only able to carry out simple commands. The feeling of dislike was mutual. The old woman stunk anyways, like a mixture of mothballs and lemon. She dutifully carried out that last command, though, her feet carrying her to the kitchens where Moira, the cook, could be found.  
  
Moira took one look at her and exclaimed, "Good heavens, child. What happened to you?"  
  
Nora looked down at herself. Her uniform was clean and tidy. She patted her hair and found not a strand loose. She frowned. "What do you mean," she asked.  
  
"You look as if someone had just given you a sound verbal thrashing," she clarified.  
  
Nora laughed, "Oh, nothing like that. I assure you. I was just assisting Madam with her clothing." She sat down on one of the stools near the stove and pilfered a roll left over from breakfast. "The Dowager requests I bring a salve for her ankle," she said in between large bites.  
  
"I've got just what she needs," she replied, "But you won't be bringing it to her." She reached into one of the cupboards and produced a pot. The contents was sweet smelling when Moira lifted the lid to check the contents. "Albert," she yelled at the top of her lungs.  
  
"What," Nora began, but was shushed. She grabbed another roll instead.  
  
A lad, no more than twelve, bounded into the kitchens. Moira held out the little pot and his eyes widened. "When you are done you come straight back here, you here," she told him.  
  
He nodded, smiled, and disappeared up the stairs with the pot. He never said a word.  
  
"Poor lad is mute. Never did know his name. They're all Albert to her regardless," Moira mused and turned back to the large kettle of stew she was assembling. "Do just about anything for sweets."  
  
Nora stood to leave. She really must get back to Madam. She hated any delay in Nora's duties, regardless of cause. "I thank you for the rolls," she said.  
  
"Nuhuh. You ain't going nowhere," she exclaimed, her grammar reverting in her haste. "Not till the Madam calls fer you."  
  
"I can't be caught idle," she explained.  
  
"And ye can't be caught going up to those rooms. Stay here," she repeated.  
  
"Why," she asked, truly perplexed.  
  
"Albert won't be done for some time," she said, as if that explained everything.  
  
Nora sat down on the stool again. She twirled a radish on the wooden table. "Surely there is something I can do for Madam while Albert is rubbing that salve into her ankle," she protested.  
  
Moira, satisfied the girl wasn't going anywhere, returned to her chopping. "Are you daft," she asked and eyed the girl. She grunted, "Of course you are, and innocent to boot." She swept a pile of sliced carrots into a basket and started on the celery. "Albert is not rubbing Madam's ankle with that salve," she finally said.  
  
"What? Then why call for him," she mused and popped a carrot top into her mouth.  
  
"He's doing the exact same thing for the Madam that you do for the Viscount," she explained.  
  
Nora stared. There was no possible way the Madam had a cock of her own beneath that dress. She'd seen every wrinkly inch of the woman at one time or another.  
  
"Been doing it since her duty was fulfilled and Lawrence was a strong toddling boy. She likes 'em young, you see. I think she has someone at the orphanage, or maybe the church. All orphans of some sort. She calls them Albert for a few years and they do things for her. Things only a man can do. When they get too old she finds a new boy and the other one disappears. Wouldn'ta be surprised to see him at the brothels next year," she mused.  
  
Nora recoiled in shock and disgust, "But, he's a child."  
  
"Gotta grow up sometime. Least he's not starving on the streets. Could be worse," Moira shot back, but the way she said it was odd. It was like she didn't believe her own words and was tired of saying them.  
  
Nora didn't say more and Moira didn't offer any explanation. It was nearly an hour before the boy came bounding down the stairs to return the little pot, sucking on a sweet in his mouth. She suppressed a shudder of revulsion, gave Moira a tight smile, and marched upstairs to the ringing of the servant's bell from the study.  
  
She passed the new hire, Isabella, bringing a load of laundry down the back stairs and offered her a companionable nod. Normally she would stop to help, the woman knew that, but the Viscount was waiting and it would be worse for her if she dallied.

_You know I'm born to lose, and gambling's for fools,_  
_But that's the way I like it baby,_  
_I don't wanna live for ever,_  
_And don't forget the joker!_

The Earl of Winchester was in a foul mood. He had stormed in to the house only an hour after breaking his fast, his expression stormy, and locked himself away in his study. There was the occasional loudly uttered blasphemous word and a few times there came a muffled thump, but he had not emerged and it was well past lunch already. Bart, the only member of the staff that dared to disturb him when he got into a mood such as this, knocked on the heavy oaken door with a sure hand and cleared his throat, "My Lord?"  
  
There was silence for a moment, long enough that he considered knocking again, but presently the door was opened just a crack to reveal a composed and somber Lord John. "What is it, Bartholomew," he asked.  
  
Bart cleared his throat, "My Lord, it is well past lunch. I came to inquire if you wish to take your repast in the study." There, that had been easy enough. His Lord wasn't so bad if you knew how to approach certain delicate situations. He had no idea what the housekeeper could be doing to incite his ire.  
  
Lord John squinted, nodded once as if deciding something and replied, "No Bart, I think some fresh air will do me good. Please, have my meal brought to the solarium. I will arrive shortly." Then he shut the door.  
  
Puzzled, Bartholomew grabbed on to the one thing that made sense just this moment, duty. He left to arrange lunch as requested. Bart hadn't known why the Earl was in such a foul mood that morning until the news of Viscount Wentworth's suspicious death had spread through the house several hours later. A man arrived with a missive, stamped and sealed, and like wildfire they all knew. Winchester and Wentworth had never truly gotten along nicely. They were rivals in many things, even women, ever since they had been boys. The Lady Mary had been promised to the Viscount until something had happened to change her father's name and a replacement engagement with his Lord was hastily arranged. There had been barely enough time to call the bans before they were wed and the dowry transferred. The Viscount had not taken the news well. Some said their long-standing business rivalry had sprung forth then. It was a fierce one, but never malicious. Neither man wished the other ill, despite the past, and his Lord was obviously stressed from the suddenness of the Viscount's passing.  
  
The house was busy afterward. Men walked in and out of the study almost as fast as Bartholomew could open the door for them. Three of the five solicitors kept on retainer arrived with stacks of paperwork covered with legalese. His Lord hardly left his desk much less the study. By the time night fell Winchester was exhausted, letting the weariness peek through the cracks in his facade. This was part of Bartholomew's duty as well. Supper was prepared and brought. Drinks were served. The tea was bottomless and ever piping hot. Winchester Manor was a well-oiled machine and its showed on days like this, where there was no room for even the slightest error.  
  
He was bringing to the sitting room what he hoped would be the last tea service of the evening when he nearly ran into the Governess just leaving. "You should be with the children," he scolded in a hushed whisper. "Hurry along before the Earl spots you."  
  
She smirked and sauntered off.  
  
Lord John was reclining in near the fire, his eyes half-closed when Bartholomew entered. He cleared his throat, "My Lord, your tea."  
  
He opened his eyes and looked relieved. "Thank you, Bart. Some refreshment would be welcome," he said as if he hadn't downed nearly a gallon today already.  
  
"Was the Governess bothering you? I can speak with her if you'd like," he inquired.  
  
"Juliet," he asked and then shook his head. "She was no bother. I was enjoying her company. I am afraid Mary has taken the news of Lawrence's death harder than I thought. It seems she actually cared for him. May yet still care for him. Did you know the Dowager's maid has been blamed for the murder? His own mother." It was obvious that Lord John believed the maid was merely an instrument, as the lower class tended to be. Money was a powerful motivator. It was no secret that the Dowager Wentworth had grown to despise her son over the years, though no one yet knew the cause, if it existed to be found.  
  
Bartholomew bit back his retort about speaking out of turn to servants. Their loyalties were never assured, no matter how long a house employs them and the Governess had only been hired last month. Juliet was, admittedly, exactly what Dean and Sam had needed. A seemingly delightful young woman with a knack for encouraging young minds and a strong character to keep trouble contained. Dean was already showing improvement from his previously shameful state. Mary's previous choice in Governess had let the boy trample all over her. It was high time this house had hired a Governess worthy of Winchester. There was something shifty about her he just didn't trust, though.  
  
John filled his cup and sipped. "Days like today I wish there was some way to beget an heir without a blasted woman getting involved," he spat. "At least that task is over and done with."  
  
Obviously, the couple had participated in one of their infamous quarrels while Bartholomew had been elsewhere. He hoped his Lord had not shared those thoughts with Juliet as well. He poured a steaming cup of the brew, adding the proper proportions of cream and honey as the Lord preferred, and served it with a delicate flourish. Tea service was one thing he rather enjoyed performing and he rarely allowed anyone else the honor.  
  
"Mary has informed me she is spending a few days with the Dowager and Widow Wentworth and she is leaving with the morning light," he continued. "Of all the times," he began, but his voice trailed off. "It does not matter," he announced with a scowl.  
  
"Is there anything I may do," Bartholomew asked.  
  
John looked up at him. "No. That is quite alright. Let her staff handle it. I have need to go elsewhere for a while as well. Is the cabin prepared?"  
  
The cabin was actually a small four bedroom construction nearly twenty miles north. The previous Earl of Winchester had commissioned it built as a hunting retreat for a young John upon his fifteenth birthday. The plans had barely been drawn up when he had unexpectedly died when the boy was barely old enough to remember him. The construction was eventually ordered completed by his Widow before she too passed on leaving a thirteen year old Earl of Winchester to keep the Earldom running somehow. The cabin was one of The Earl's favorite early successes and he generally retreated there when things with Mary got bad. Lately that had been often enough to raise a few eyebrows among the staff.  
  
Bartholomew replied, "Of course, My Lord. I shall send ahead to have it aired out for you. When do you expect to arrive?"  
  
He seemed to consider things for a moment, weighing his duties as Earl against his desires for a few days of freedom. "The Widow Wentworth has set the funeral a customary three days hence. I shall depart sunrise after and will make no stops," he decided. Then he set his now empty cup on the tray and got up to replace it with a finger of brandy in a crystal tumbler. Lord John was not in the habit of consuming a night cap before bed. That he was choosing to do so now spoke volumes. "I shall not retire for some time tonight, Bart. Wentworth was no friend of mine, but I find I shall miss him all the same," he admitted. He had, after all, been a worthy opponent in many things.  
  
It was not till the evening chill had settled in and the moon had risen to its fullest height that Lord John retired to his bed chamber, finding it as empty as he expected. Mary had her own rooms, for several reasons. Their marriage had been arranged and not born of love, a political animal that did not require such things to function and nothing had been done to cultivate a romantic attachment between them. They attended certain gatherings together, saw to the well-being of their two children together. That was the extent of their marital activities since the birth of Sam six months prior. True, Mary could not bar the door should John desire her company or her body. That had been written into the contract, a point that had stoked her ire early on and something she had yet to forgive him on. He never told her that her own father had written much of the contract, that particular entry being one of them. He simply had not argued the point, unwilling to provide the the man with cause to believe John would not diligently see to his husbandly duties to plant an heir in her. It was a standard clause in most marital agreements of the ton these days. Regardless, they both had fulfilled their respective duties with haste. Her womb had quickened barely four months into the marriage. Dean had appeared small and weak when he had arrived, but he was a Winchester. He was stronger than he looked, and twice as stubborn as John had remembered himself being. He grew fast and well. He showed the promise of a fierce warrior. Sam was an entirely different story. Where Dean had been granite and demand, Sam was more accommodating. At barely six months old, already he attuned to his surroundings rather than seek to mold them to himself. Those in charge of his care seemed to always know what he needed, without the shrill wailing Dean would on occasion resort to at that age. It was a different kind of strength, but no less powerful. The ton would never see him coming, never see his hand pulling all those fragile strings. Together those two could take the aristocracy by storm and leave nothing in their wake. At odds, they would surely tear this Earldom to pieces.  
  
Something woke Bartholomew before dawn. He reckoned he had barely caught an hour's rest, his eyes still heavy and demanding sleep. Yet, something had pulled him from his slumber and driven his heart to pound. There was a faint scent he normally would have attributed to the cook hard at work preparing early breakfast. His room, though, was on the opposite side of the house and the morning was not yet nigh. He sat up in bed. Smoke was pouring in through the cracks around his door, though the wood remained cool to the touch. The next few moments were a blur. He pulled on whatever clothing he could reach and rushed out in to the hall.  
  
He found Lord John ascending the grand staircase, towards the flames. "My Lord," he shouted.  
  
Lord John looked down, his face a mask of determination and bid Bartholomew to his side. "The papers," he ordered and pressed a key into his hand.  
  
Bartholomew took only a moment to recognize the key to the big desk in his Lord's study, but when he looked back up he could barely see the man's outline in the darkness. He had already rushed back to the private wing where his family slept. Bartholomew was torn. He wished to remain at his employer's side so that he could ensure the man's safety, but he had also received orders. Most of the paperwork found in the study had copies elsewhere, specifically a trusted solicitor whose family had been employed by the Winchester men for generations. There were a few, however, tucked away in the hidden drawer of the massive cherry desk that were one of a kind. He dashed to the study to carry out his orders and grabbed the precious few family portraits in the room as well.  
  
His burden was light, making his feet swift, as he took the quickest route out of the mansion. Bartholomew was no longer young and agile, but fear and purpose lent him the strength he needed. Outside he found most of the household dressed in their night clothes and assembling into a water line, passing buckets from one to the other. The chief gardener had opened a cistern near one side of the mansion and was filling them as fast as empty buckets were presented. The majority of the water was being used to maintain a clear path to the second floor rooms where the family slept. The fire was already licking up the external face, climbing the rose vines Mary had cultivated.  
  
Bartholomew was retrieving a soaked cloth to ensure his breathing should he need to venture inside when a small figure staggered out of the front door. Five year old Dean was soaked from head to toe in freezing water from the buckets, crying, and struggling beneath the weight of baby Sam, but they both appeared alive and whole. He abandoned the rag in favor of a dry cloth and moved to help the small crowd of Winchester household staff that moved to assist. Their relief that the Winchester bloodline would continue, that some of their beloved family was safe, was palpable. When the first servant reached him, though, he refused to relinquish his hold on his baby brother, his face frozen in terror as if demons themselves sought to tear the baby from him. Both were shivering with shock and cold, and the shawl draped about them was not thick enough to remedy the problem. It was the stablemaster's wife, Missouri, who told them to leave the boy be. Since the birth Dean had been unusually protective of the newest addition to his family, as if the child had come from his own body rather than Mary's. She brought as many of the freshly laundered horse blankets from the stables as she could carry and placed several down as padding on a wagon. Dean readily accepted what help he needed to climb onto the makeshift bedding, only pulling away when grasping hands got too close to his charge. He visibly relaxed, though, when Missouri wrapped a couple more blankets around the sobbing boy and his burden until she was satisfied they would both be sufficiently insulated from the night. No one seemed to notice that Sam had only cried once during the whole ordeal, when he felt himself being pulled from Dean's arms.  
  
Juliet came running out next, along with Mary's personal maid, both a little singed from the flames raging inside. Neither claimed to have seen Lord John or Lady Mary in their flight. Juliet was carrying what she could of her own clothing as well as a few from the boys' own wardrobe and she was incredibly relieved to see the two small forms huddled together and seemingly unharmed. She added her own profile to block the wind from them and did her best to soothe the fears of a new stoic and nearly emotionless Dean.  
  
Lord John was the last to emerge, his night clothing ripped and covered in so much soot that it was difficult to ascertain whether any of the damage had been fire or blade. He staggered from the raging inferno like a shadow emerging from Hell, singed and bloody. There was even a live fire climbing up his back before the cook thought to extinguish it with a pale of icy water, one of the last that could be drawn from the reserves. He barely reacted to the temperature shock on his wounds. The house still blazed behind him, it and everything and everyone still left inside a total loss. It had been damned the moment the first flame flickered to life. The only thing that had gotten through to him had been the promise that Dean and Sam had made it out alive.  
  
Later, in front of the scorched skeletal shell that had once been Winchester Manor, Lord John clutched his sleeping sons to his chest and said softly to no one in particular, "She was tied to the ceiling, covered in blood." He repeated it over and over and over.

_Pushing up the ante, I know you wanna see me,_  
_Read 'em and weep, the dead man's hand again,_  
_I see it in your eyes, take one look and die,_  
_The only thing you see, you know it's gonna be,_  
_The Ace Of Spades_

Fergus was livid. He was pacing from one end of the basement to other, his steps pounding relentlessly. "What the bloody hell went wrong," he yelled. Then he turned to the figure hovering on the last step of he stairs. He stormed over, his face inches from hers. "Did you see who did it?"  
  
Juliet shook her head, her eyes wide. "No," she insisted. "I was asleep. My room was near the children."  
  
He growled, the impotent frustration evident. "Did anyone see anything," he asked the rest of his little flock. He was beginning to think they were all useless.  
  
Ruben cleared his throat. "I took it upon myself to keep watch on Winchester Manor last night. It was I who sounded the alarm and woke the Lord," he informed them.  
  
Fergus turned his way. "And, Ruby, did you see how it happened," he asked calmly.  
  
Ruben nodded. "I saw the kennel master leaving just as the flames took hold upstairs," he replied.  
  
"Alesky," Juliet gasped, one hand held over her mouth as if to conceal the name.  
  
"Who," Fergus prodded. He would know the name of the man that spoiled everything he had worked these past years for.  
  
Juliet swallowed and said, "Alesky Zazel."  
  
"Who the bloody hell is that," Fergus impatiently demanded. No one had an answer. He huffed. "Well then, let's take care of something we do have an answer for," he decided and gestured to the wall where a hunched figure was chained to the wall. "Isabella Talbot."  
  
The figure flinched. Ruben had left marks of his own when he had dragged her from her hiding place and chained her there. Then Fergus left a few more before the others had arrived.  
  
"You must answer for the death of the Viscount Wentworth," he announced.  
  
She raised her head and insisted again, "It was not my doing."  
  
"He died of poison, did he not," Fergus asked.  
  
She reluctantly nodded. That was common knowledge. The police had quickly ruled his death murder by poison and the news had spread like wildfire.  
  
"Then that poor maid has taken your place in the gallows, for you were to deliver the poison. Were you not?"  
  
She looked pained but again nodded, "I was."  
  
"Then how is it that a woman experienced with such matters, as you claim to be, can mistakenly administer a lethal dose of belladonna to a man of Viscount Wentworth's stature by accident," he asked.  
  
Isabella stood to her full height, raising her chin high. The chains around her wrists pulled taut. "I did not," she insisted. "I put only enough in his morning tea to sicken him."  
  
Fergus sneered, "I do not believe you. We do not believe you." He spread his arms theatrically wide and faced his flock with a somber expression.  
  
A murmur swept through the others gathered opposite him and together with Ruben's encouragement they, every last one, concurred, "Isabella must answer for her failure."  
  
"She failed us all," he judged.  
  
The room got quiet for a moment. Then first one, then another, and another began speaking until the entire room erupted into furious low voices. The murmur was nearly deafening in its relentless buzzing of indecipherable conversations. Fergus let it continue for a while, let the suspense build. He enjoyed the trepidation subtly folding Isabella's proud body until she stood slightly hunched, her face turned away from her cohorts. The sound built until he clapped his hands together once, softly. The murmurs ended instantly and as one they turned to face him in front of the altar.  
  
"Have your reached a decision," he inquired.  
  
The ruling was unanimous and surprised even Fergus in its savagery. He was pleased. For her failure, it was Isabella's blood and heart that was used for the ceremony that night, her lifeless carcass that was tossed into the river before the sun rose the next day. The detective in charge of her case assumed she was just another dead prostitute and didn't try very hard to solve the crime. Nora perished in prison, no doubt killed for her high morals and squeamishness. Her body was thrown into that month's mass grave with every other inmate that died while it was open, her name recorded in a ledger with as much consideration as was given hogs sent to slaughter. Albert found seven other Alberts of varying ages at the brothel the Dowager sent him to when she tired of him that winter. Though he never saw her again he scanned the papers for news of her death and when it happened he treated all the Alberts to their favorite sweets and a brew in the pub downstairs. Lord John was initially blamed for the fire that killed his wife and two servants. His title and status allowed him to press for a more thorough investigation and the two presumed dead servants became one unidentified charred corpse found amid the rubble of the servant's quarters of Winchester Manor. One servant was now missing. The Earl of Winchester was exonerated with a formal apology from all levels of government. The kennel master was never found.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so firstly, this was supposed to be a short little couple k one-shot based on a seriously weird dream of mine as an homage to the death of Motorhead's Lemmy around New Year's eve. The lyrics were taken from The Ace of Spades by Motorhead. It was supposed to be about gambling. (*face palm* Why do I even bother making plot outlines?) In any event, I hope you enjoyed it. It was so fun to write it ran away with me.


End file.
